


bear the arrow

by Skeiler



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Endeavour Morse, Case Fic, Depression, Impact Play, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Recovery, Rope Bondage, Top!Endeavour Morse, Wax Play, in that there is a case that occasionally gets mentioned, typical Morse whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:14:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27094141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skeiler/pseuds/Skeiler
Summary: Someone is killing young men in Oxford. Someone who is very good at leaving no evidence for Oxford's finest to go on. People are increasingly on edge and coming out of the woodwork with their theories. When one of those theories actually makes sense, Morse goes undercover and ends up chasing something very different from a cold-blooded killer.Or: how Morse goes undercover at a kinky sex party and likes it.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There are references throughout the first chapter to a corruption case and Morse's "self-destruction." This alludes to a combo Neverland/Deguello case from another modern au fic I am working on in which I mashup elements of Neverland and Deguello, Thursday still gets shot, Morse still goes (temporarily) to prison, and walks out of Farnleigh with PTSD. I always thought it was interesting the way Series 3 doesn't straight up address how much it must have fucked Morse up to go to prison (but kind of does in little ways), so this has a lot of my Sad Morse headcanons smushed in.
> 
> I also want to just say that I know my Morse-does-BDSM headcanons probably run counter to most of the fandom's, so I want to save everyone the trouble: **Morse is a top in this**. Morse here has a "wants to save/comfort/care for/provide for" kink and his bottom has a "be praised/comforted/cared for/provided for" kink and that's the beginning and end of their dynamic.
> 
> Also, I don't advocate BDSM as an alternative to healthily addressing mental health problems but I also don't judge people for wanting to hit/get hit for the rush if that's what gets them through the day. Is this a dead dove fic? I don't know. Read the tags and expect to find descriptions of hardcore impact play (eventually).
> 
> Find me on tumblr @ endeavourous or on twitter @trashgoddianxia.

“So, what is it that you’re suggesting, exactly?” Detective Chief Inspector Thursday asks very slowly.

The man—Andrew Parker—shifts uneasily in his seat. They’re using the smaller of the interrogation rooms, although Parker is not under caution—it’s simply the most convenient place for their conversation, away from the incident room and its wall summarising the current investigation. But no one enjoys spending time in a windowless cell across the table from police officers and Morse watches Parker look among the three present as if he’s doubting his decision to come to the police station.

“Look,” Parker begins. “You’re the police. You go undercover and things like that, don’t you? Send someone to a few of our events, ask the right questions. Almost everyone has a recent story about some guy who goes too far or is a bit… weird. If you talk to people you can connect the dots, can’t you? That’s what you’re supposed to do.”

DCI Thursday looks unimpressed. “You think we should send an officer undercover to local BDSM events because two of the victims were members of your… ‘community.’ You also believe the killer might be attending your events because there’s someone people get a ‘weird vibe’ from, who gave your friend a decorated tooth as a present.”

“Basically.”

Thursday glances at his two sergeants. “Leave us your contact information and we’ll be in touch.”

The detectives sit in silence when Parker is gone. At length, Strange gives a sort of disbelieving laugh. “Not the way I thought I’d be invited to a kink party.”

“And how exactly did you expect to be invited, sergeant?” Thursday asks. “Morse? What do you think?”

Morse doesn’t think. He’s only been back from what everyone refers to his as his ‘extended leave’ for a couple of months and he feels like he’s lost connection with the team, like he’s always out of sync. Not just on a different page—in another volume altogether. There’s a paranoia that pervades his days, thinking his colleagues no longer want or trust him after everything that happened with the corruption case he’d pushed so hard and the fallout that came after. But perhaps the fear is as much to do with the lack of sleep as anything else—Morse spends his nights awake, doing anything that distracts his mind from the sounds in the apartment block around him. He knows he’s drinking too much, but he doesn’t care. It helps. He’ll cling to anything that helps.

“Morse? Do you think this is something we should put resources into?”

“We have to put resources into something. Four men dead in the last six months and no leads. If there’s even a chance we might learn something and bring the killer to justice, I think it’s worth it,” Morse reasons out. He reasons, too, that this assignment might keep him out of the station a bit, give him space to get his head straight. He’s more interested in that than he is concerned about the nature of the events he’d be going to. “I don’t mind volunteering to do it.”

“Well then, I’ll get Mr. Bright’s authorisation.”

This is how Morse finds himself at a BDSM party standing at a seemingly normal detached house outside Headington in a kitchen full of mostly naked people watching Andrew Parker—who goes by Master Reign here—make small talk with a woman in head-to-toe leather with a man on a leash kneeling at her feet. There’s something deeply disorienting about how normal the experience feels—it’s hardly different from the outrageous fancy dress parties he attended occasionally as a student, aside from the greater proportion of the attendees who are entirely naked. Morse surveys the crowd, one ear on Parker’s conversation and the other listening for any mentions of particularly creepy or violent men. Most of the crowd in the kitchen is discussing the food like they would at any other house party, but occasionally someone walks past Morse discussing things like ‘edgeplay’ or ‘sounding,’ neither of which Morse is in a hurry to have explained to him.

“You were there, though, weren’t you? When that guy—what was his name? He was banned, I think. The guy who kept hitting Toyboy during their impact scene until he broke skin even though Toyboy used his safeword,” Parker asks and Morse’s full attention snaps back to him. It’s a clumsy attempt at interrogation, but Morse has to admit it’s effective.

“Yes, but I was downstairs—I only heard the commotion when they had to pull him out of the room and take him outside,” the woman replies. “I don’t know who he was—I’m not sure he’s a regular.”

“Ahh, okay,” Parker responds.

The woman and her man on the leash wander off—‘to the wet room,’ which both fascinates and vaguely repulses Morse—and Parker turns back to the detective. “I can introduce you to Toyboy. He might know the name of the guy he was playing with who went berserk.”

“It must be difficult,” Morse comments drily, “to keep track of people when you don’t know their real name.”

“It’s not really—people use whatever name they want and that’s the name that matters to us. Most of the time it’s not important to go looking for people outside of the scene,” Parker shrugs, not taking Morse’s point, and then looks around the crowd expectantly. “I thought Nyx would be here by now.”

Nyx, Morse knows, is Parker’s friend with the admirer Parker finds creepy—the one Parker insists is a ‘guaranteed suspect’ for the serial killer. Parker is adamant that Morse needs to meet Nyx and protect him, saying that Nyx is too trusting for his own good sometimes and is liable to be murdered at any moment. Parker mentions him often.

“Nyx?” a voice says. Morse turns around to find a tall man wearing nothing but an apron placing canapés on a plate. “He’s upstairs—he and Claudine are doing a demonstration.”

“Oh, thanks Rog,” Parker replies. Of Morse he asks, “Do you want to go see? Get an idea of what we’re really about?”

Morse isn’t sure what to do. On the one hand, he’s here to determine whether this community could be unknowingly harbouring a dangerous killer. It’s his responsibility to ask questions, ‘connect the dots’ as Parker put it. But on the other hand, he’s somewhat intrigued by everything going on around him. He still has the idea that these parties revolve around bondage and violence, abusive dynamics, but so far he’s just seen a sedate social event with a revealing dress code. He has to admit he’s curious to know what it’s all really about.

So he does.

They go up to the first floor. Parker and Morse had met the previous Wednesday to go over what Parker said were ‘the basics’—how these parties worked, what Morse could expect when introduced to people. Parker had explained that this house was a dedicated ‘dungeon’ (although the neutral colours and unremarkable furniture don’t match up with Morse’s conception of a BDSM dungeon) and that the bedrooms have been set up to accommodate various activities. This explanation had made Morse even more curious about the logistics of this community—who owned the house? Where did that person live? Who paid the council tax? Morse had paid £10 to be admitted to the party—what did that money go towards? It was all much more interesting than Morse had previously anticipated.

When they make it to the top of the stairs, Morse finds a crowd at one bedroom door spilling out onto the landing, through which Parker pushes his way with Morse in tow. No one seems to mind, but Morse makes little noises of apology as they pass. They take up a position against the far wall and Morse finally turns to take in what’s going on.

It’s bondage, of a sort—but Morse isn’t sure this would be out of place in a Cirque du Soleil performance. A man is suspended by ropes from a large metal ring hanging from the ceiling beams. The man’s slender body is stretched long and lean, encased in a bodysuit of embroidered flowers that contrast with his pale skin. Each of his limbs is pulled taut by a rope, as is his long dark hair—there’s so much tension and elegance in the shapes his body makes, it hardly seems erotic at all. No different from seeing an acrobat or gymnast perform, except for the man’s incredible stillness. Morse can see his face and it’s breathtaking—soft and open and beautiful as he relaxes into the embrace of the ropes, limbs boneless as a woman manipulates them into different positions.

It’s art, Morse realises. Performance art.

He loves it.

“That’s Claudine. She’s what we call a rigger—probably the most popular outside of London. Nyx is the one being rigged—he’s Claudine’s favourite rope bunny for demonstrations. And anything else—they play together a lot,” Parker explains in hushed tones.

The woman—Claudine—loosens the ropes holding Nyx’s arms and twists his torso almost ninety degrees, re-securing him in this new position with one arm raised towards the ceiling and one pulled taut towards the floor. Morse can see more of Nyx’s face like this, and it’s serene, as though he’s managed to fall asleep. Claudine is explaining something to the crowd—where and where not to place ropes so circulation isn’t affected, why you can’t leave someone in a particular position for too long—but Morse is only half listening. Every time her hand brushes some part of Nyx’s body there’s a small reaction from him, a little twitch of pleasure in his face, a sigh, and Morse is imagining his hand on that rounded hip, his fingers ghosting along the curves of that waist. Morse wants to make someone look that serene, to create that kind of beauty and pleasure. And he wants the someone to be the man in front of him, in a way he’s never wanted anyone else before—Nyx is so beautiful the pull of it is like a dying star, nothing can escape it.

As Claudine explains about supporting the spine while transitioning between poses, she begins to once again loosen the ropes supporting Nyx’s upper back and arms. Only this time she lets him drop gently, back arching down towards the floor with tremendous flexibility. Nyx’s arms and hands are so beautiful Morse wants to kiss them—they’re as elegant as something carved by Bernini, or a ballet dancer’s graceful gestures. When he’s suspended by nothing more than the ropes bracketing his hips, Claudine runs a hand up the embroidered flowers hugging the flat plane of Nyx’s stomach and lets it come to rest on his lower abdomen, still parallel to the floor. She lets Nyx breathe like that for a few moments before beginning to undo the ropes securing his legs and lowering him to the floor.

As soon as she’s untied the last of the ropes from Nyx’s body, Claudine pulls a blanket from a duffel bag and wraps him in it, encourages him to curl onto his side.

“Alright,” she says quietly, with a faint French accent, “the demonstration is over. If you would all step outside, I’ll take questions in the sitting room in a short while.”

The crowd dutifully departs. Morse makes to follow, but Parker stops him. “Doesn’t include us. Claudine and Nyx have an aftercare routine, but we can stay.”

Morse doesn’t question this, just leans back against the wall as Claudine turns the lights down and curls up next to Nyx on the floor. She whispers to him, strokes his hair, and Morse wishes again that it was him instead with his body curled around Nyx’s. Morse has no idea where this impulse comes from—it’s rooted somewhere deep inside him, coiling upward from the base of his spine like a creeping vine. To give, to comfort, to protect—those wants are strong in him all the time, but they flare up like a brush fire now, tinder lit by the lightning spark of Nyx’s delicate fragility.

It isn’t long before Nyx stirs, sits up. He really looks like he’s been asleep, cheeks flushed, hair disheveled. He looks so beautiful it makes Morse’s heart ache. There’s a feeling in his lower abdomen like someone has hooked a chain to his tailbone and he’s being pulled, inexorably, towards the sleepy-eyed man. Morse knows it as _want_ , something he does his best to ignore most of the time. Claudine pulls a package of custard creams and a bottle of water from the duffel and hands them to Nyx, who immediately sticks one in his mouth. Nyx smiles at Claudine, at something she’s said that Morse didn’t catch, and that makes the whole room seem brighter. Settling behind Nyx with a hairbrush, Claudine begins to brush out his hair and Nyx–

And Nyx turns his sunshine smile on Morse for a brief moment and Morse feels as if his universe has both contracted and expanded, as if it’s nothing more than the amber-brown of Nyx’s eyes and everything Morse never imagined was possible.

And then Nyx’s attention turns to Parker. “Hello Andrew! Is this the friend you told me about?”

“Yes, Nyx,” Parker responds, moving to sit on the ground in front of the other man. Morse follows and crouches next to Parker, who introduces Morse by the ‘scene name’ Morse has chosen. “This is Edward. He’s new to the scene.”

“Nice to meet you,” Nyx replies as his head tilts back with the pull of Claudine’s brush. He pops another biscuit in his mouth while Claudine secures his long hair in a messy bun, which nevertheless just makes Nyx look even more dreamy and ethereal. “Did you like the demonstration?”

“Yes,” Morse says, but his voice cracks slightly and he feels his ears flush. “It was beautiful. You were. You _are_. Beautiful.”

Morse thinks he sees a smile from Claudine as she turns and begins to wind her ropes into neat bundles, but Nyx’s smile just brightens and he says, “Thank you.”

The curtains over the door open and a man sticks his head inside. “Hey Reign, some folks want to do needles in the wet room. Do you mind being the first aid monitor? Jinx is doing a scene.”

Parker turns to look uncertainly at Morse, who reacts instinctively to the mention of needles by frowning. “Will you be alright on your own for a while? Just remember what I said—if anyone asks if you want to do something and you’re not interested, just say ‘no.’ Most everyone here is totally cool with the concept.”

“I can keep him company,” Nyx chirps. He’s fished a mobile up from somewhere and looks up from its screen. “I’m supposed to play with Adam tonight, but he hasn’t turned up yet.”

Parker makes a face at Morse, which Morse supposes is meant to be significant somehow. Adam must be the creepy admirer, who Parker says regularly makes plans with Nyx and then stands him up.

Morse ignores Parker and smiles at Nyx. “I’d like that.”

Nyx extracts himself from the blanket and folds it neatly before turning to help Claudine pack up her things. Morse takes the opportunity to study the intricate bodysuit he’s wearing—it’s comprised of green elastic bands connecting richly embroidered floral patches, but it barely covers any of Nyx’s torso and if it weren’t for the maroon tights Nyx is wearing, it would leave nothing to the imagination. As it is, the indentations from where the ropes bit deeply into the flesh of his torso and arms are on vivid display, skin irritated and red. Morse wonders, idly, whether it hurt to be suspended, whether Nyx merely endured the pain or enjoyed it. Does that make Nyx a masochist?

“Are you ready?”

Morse is startled out of his thoughts by Nyx’s gentle voice. He’s so close to Morse, his face so kind—the way he’s looking at Morse makes the detective feel as though he’s the only person in the world.

“Yes,” Morse replies.

“What do you want to do?” Nyx asks.

“Uh…”

“It’s okay if you don’t know. Why don’t we go to the kitchen and see what else is going on? I’d like to get some more to eat.”

They wander back downstairs. Morse can hardly keep his eyes off the elegant way Nyx moves—he has a dancer’s grace and a dancer’s figure, lithe and long. Morse has never felt so aware of another person’s body, or of the confines of his own where it’s in proximity to the other man’s. They collect drinks (more water for Nyx and squash for Morse) and a plate piled high with biscuits and fruit and then wander into the garden. It’s April and there’s still a chill in the air, so someone has started a little bonfire in a firepit and Nyx and Morse settle onto a swinging bench near it.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asks Nyx in concern as he offers Morse a slice of apple.

“Not at the moment,” Nyx replies. “I always get a little too warm with so many people in the house. The air feels nice.”

“Is this many people?”

Nyx looks over at the house and tilts his head, considering. “This is about average.”

Morse nods. He’s trying to think of how to steer the conversation towards the topic of Nyx’s creepy admirer and Parker’s theories without tipping Nyx off to his true motive for attending the party.

“Do you know many of them? The people here.”

Nyx eats a piece of pear, soft face open and thoughtful. Some of the juice is on his chin and Morse reaches up instinctively to wipe it away, then catches himself and points instead. Nyx takes care of it.

“Thanks. I’m one of the officers for the group that’s hosting the party tonight—Under 35s After Dark. So I probably know two-thirds? Three-quarters? Just because of that.”

“But most people go by a pseudonym,” Morse points out as Nyx offers him some more fruit. “So can you really say you know them?”

Nyx smiles kindly. “Names don’t matter all that much. ‘A rose by any other,’ et cetera, et cetera. It’s how people act that determines who they are as a person.”

“But you’ve had people who act badly—hurt people. Andrew said.”

“Yes, it happens. Not often, but it does. But those people would hurt someone whether we knew their name or not, whether they were at one of our events or not. Don’t you think?”

Morse has to agree. Bad actors will act badly any chance they can. “But doesn’t your… hobby… encourage people to hurt others?”

Nyx gives Morse another smile. “Our hobby encourages thorough negotiation and safe activities between consenting adults. Safe, sane and consensual—those concepts are the foundation of everything we do. We aren’t a space that welcomes those who want to hurt people just to hurt people, and we have a no tolerance policy when it comes to violating consent.”

“So you’re not worried? There must be some people who come to these events that have… dubious intentions, even if they follow the rules,” Morse presses.

“I do worry, which is why I don’t play with that many people. But I also…” Nyx falters and trails off, turns his attention to arranging the fruit on the plate into meticulous groups. “Let’s just say I have first hand experience of how awful people can be, and yes, I worry. But I also choose to trust people. That’s what it’s really about, for me. Not sex or pain or whatever—it’s about trust.”

When Nyx looks up at Morse with his earnest, open face, Morse feels a sharp tug on his stomach. Morse has seen enough victims to know from the slight tremor in Nyx’s voice, the way he pinches at his skin, that Nyx has experienced something truly dreadful, or been close to someone who has. His trauma may be years in the past, but it’s still there, under the surface of his skin, and Morse can’t help himself—he’s sat through enough trainings on establishing trust and building empathy that it’s automatic by this point—and reaches out to take Nyx’s hand, flashes a smile. Nyx seems like he’s used to this—his face stills and he nods, accepting that Morse can read his past in his face, the empty comfort Morse is offering in lieu of something _real_.

“Can you explain?” Morse asks, and Nyx’s brows draw together. “About the trust.”

“Oh,” Nyx replies and relaxes. He eats another chunk of pear as he watches the fire, and Morse takes one of the custard creams off the plate. “Well it’s like… Earlier, the suspension Claudine did—she could easily have injured me. Pinched a nerve or dropped me on my head. But I trust Claudine not to hurt me—I put my body and my safety in her hands and that’s what I… That’s what I really get off on, I guess, rather than the pain or whatever. It’s the giving myself to someone and feeling safe enough to let go that I enjoy. Choosing to trust someone else when you know the risks, when you know what could go wrong but you decide to have faith it won’t… I don’t think there’s anything more intimate. That’s what I mean. If that makes sense.”

“It does.”

It does. The desire to trust another person with your body, to subsume yourself in complete faith in another human being—it’s something Morse feels most keenly in his loneliest moments, every time he’s disappointed by someone he lets get close.

“And it’s about control,” Nyx says suddenly, quietly, an edge creeping into his voice. “It’s all about control. Some people want to have complete control over something—someone—and some people want to give up that control. What we do, kink—it’s about getting to have that, for a little while. The fantasy that complete control can be taken or given.”

Morse watches Nyx take a vanilla wafer and munch on it as they sit in silence. The little he knew of BDSM came from the discussion surrounding that movie that had come out years before, sex dungeons and contracts and whippings. That people either got off on inflicting pain or got off on receiving pain. The reality is turning out to be far more nuanced than Morse had anticipated, and far more… interesting. Does he want control or does he want to give up control? Morse finds himself wondering.

“I thought it was all like that book,” Morse says lamely, as last, and Nyx laughs with his mouth full of wafer.

“A lot of people say that,” Nyx says gently when Morse frowns. “Like life, the reality is far more boring and far more complicated. And if you’ve got your ideas about how kink works from _Fifty Shades of Gray_ , you need to unlearn everything you got out of it, because it’s a terrible example of a kinky relationship.”

Morse smiles. “I don’t have any ideas about how kink works. But I’m hoping… maybe you can explain.”

“I’d be happy to,” Nyx says, voice warm. “We were all new to this once.”

Nyx shivers suddenly in the cold air, and Morse instinctively pulls off the blazer he’s wearing and offers it to the smaller man. “Should we go inside?”

“In a minute,” Nyx says, pushing the jacket gently back to Morse. There’s a couple of pieces of fruit left on the plate, and Nyx offers him one. “Will you tell me why you’re here, tonight? Why you’re interested in all this.”

Morse freezes. He’s rehearsed, with Parker, a cover story for his presence at the party—he knows someone in the scene and wanted to check it out, reached out to Parker as leader of the group. Who does he know in the scene? Oh, they live in London. Not someone local. The words are there, on Morse’s tongue, but he can’t bring himself to lie to Nyx—not when Nyx is looking at him with those eyes that are so warm, with that face that is so… hopeful.

“I don’t know,” Morse says, eventually. He contemplates the piece of pineapple he’s holding between two fingers, feels the juice on his skin cold in the night air. It’s not a lie—it’s even close to the truth. There’s the obvious answer—Parker, his concerns, but that isn’t what Morse is thinking of. Why did Morse volunteer for this assignment? What did he think he’d find? Morse doesn’t have an answer, and into the void between him and Nyx he finds himself spilling his guts. “Something happened last year. To me. I have a therapist now, and he says I have PTSD. I take medication… It’s all very new. And I feel like I can’t just fit back into the groove I’d worn for myself, at work, in my life. It’s like… I’m trapped all the time, inside my own head. When I was invited to come to this—I don’t know. Maybe because it’s something different it sounded appealing. Something to make me feel… something.”

This time it’s Nyx that takes Morse’s hand, gives it a squeeze. Their eyes meet, and Nyx gives him an encouraging nod. “It’s alright. I’m glad you’re getting help. I’m proud of you for doing that. I’ve seen a therapist for almost half my life. Struggled with PTSD, depression. I know how difficult it can be.”

Morse laughs, mostly to cover the tears that leap, stinging, to his eyes. “What does your therapist think about your hobby?”

“She’s not a big fan of it as a coping mechanism, but she’s kink-friendly. I talk to her about it.”

“There’s so much more to it, than I thought. I don’t even know where to begin.”

Nyx gives another gentle smile. “If Andrew vetted you, I’m sure he explained that you’re never under any obligation to do anything you don’t want to. It’s perfectly fine to just watch—you can tell people you’re into voyeurism! But if there’s something you want to see or ask about, let me know. I’ll be your mentor.”

“Alright,” Morse replies with a nod.

Nyx shivers again and this time Morse wraps the coat around his shoulders. “Let’s go back inside. We can walk around—I’ll explain what other people are doing.”

“What about your friend?” Morse asks, and he isn’t even trying to steer the conversation back to what he’s really here for. “You said you were expecting someone.”

“Adam? Yes, we made plans, but he’s very shy—he’s a bit ‘on the spectrum,’ I guess you’d say. He gets overwhelmed at parties when there’s lots of people.”

“And he doesn’t mind you… He won’t be upset you spend time with other people?”

“No, Adam’s not my owner or anything. He’s just someone I play with—or, would play with, we just haven’t made it happen,” Nyx explains. “I don’t have an owner or master or anything. Just my play partners. So I’m always open to meeting new people and seeing what develops.”

The look he gives Morse suggests that Morse isn’t the only one who’s interested—who _wants_ —in this conversation, and he smiles.

When they go back inside, Nyx keeps close to Morse, their arms threaded together. His guide and guardian and– Something. With his free hand, Nyx grazes among the plates of food in the kitchen, popping cubes of cheese and profiteroles into his mouth as he greets people and chats. It seems as though Nyx is very popular, with a small crowd gathering around him to ask about an upcoming event. Morse feels much calmer with Nyx at his side—the other party attendees don’t give him any more appraising looks or try to make small talk with him and Morse relaxes against Nyx as he tunes out the flow of conversation around him.

Parker comes into the kitchen to fill a glass of water. When he catches sight of Nyx, he comes over. “I’m all set up to do wax. Do you want to?”

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Nyx chirps excitedly, then seems to catch himself. He turns to Morse. “Sorry, no. I said I’d show Edward around.”

“What is wax?” Morse asks, genuinely curious.

“Pretty much what it sounds like,” Parker says. “Dripping wax on someone’s skin.”

Nyx shakes his head. “It’s okay. We can do it another time.”

“No,” Morse responds, quickly. “I said I wanted you to explain things. This is as good a place to start as anywhere.”

“You’re sure?” Nyx asks, hesitant and concerned.

“Yes. I’d… like to watch.”

Nyx’s smile is brilliant and his eyes light up. Morse feels a sharp tug in his chest, a swell of happiness at being partly responsible for Nyx’s excitement. They follow in Parker’s wake, arm in arm, to the house’s attached garage. There’s a wide tarp spread on the floor and a padded massage table, which Nyx immediately pushes himself up onto.

“The tarp is so we don’t get wax on the floor. Normally, we’d put a plastic sheet down over the table as well, but this is Andrew’s and he doesn’t mind getting his own wax on it,” Nyx explains as Morse takes up a position leaning against the wall.

Parker turns from where he’s pulling candles from their plastic packaging. “Or your naked arse. Speaking of which—you’re not going to let me get wax all over your beautiful lingerie are you?”

“Of course not,” Nyx says indignantly as he jumps back down and–

Oh, he really is going to take his clothes off right here. Morse averts his eyes as Nicholas wriggles carefully out of the tight elastic of the bodysuit and strips off his tights. There’s the faintest hint of pale skin at the edge of Morse’s vision, which he fights the urge to turn towards.

“Edward? Edward?”

It takes Morse a moment to remember that’s his name, and in his panic at forgetting he turns and looks right at Nyx, who is very naked, very visibly. Morse looks away again quickly.

“Does nakedness make you uncomfortable?” Nyx asks uncertainly. “I can put something back on.”

“N- no,” Morse stammers. “It just doesn’t seem polite to… look.”

“Maybe I want you to look,” Nyx says flirtatiously, and Morse lets his eyes slowly slide back to meet Nyx’s own. They sparkle for a moment before Nyx turns serious again and lays a gentle touch on Morse’s forearm. “But seriously, if you’re uncomfortable, please say something.”

“Are we doing this or not?” Parker asks.

Nyx watches Morse’s face until Morse gives a slight nod. Then he turns and hops back up on the table. “Yes, we are.”

Morse watches as Nyx lays down. His lean lines and curves are fully displayed and his pale skin seems to glow in the low light. Parker secures Nyx’s hands in a pair of cuffs attached to the side of the table, then dangles a sleep mask above his face. Nyx nods, and Parker secures the mask over his eyes. As Parker fishes in his bag for something, Morse watches Nyx wriggle his hand out of its cuff and adjust the mask’s positioning.

“Wax play is all about sensation,” Nyx says quietly, voice low and breathy. “When you’re blindfolded, you feel everything a little _more_. And with wax play, you can pretty much let the sensation go anywhere—you aren’t limited to your arse or thighs, like you mostly are with impact.”

Morse watches as Parker puts a broad plaster over Nyx’s navel and rubs a soft lotion on Nyx’s chest and stomach and thighs. Nyx explains, “To help the wax come off easier, later. I guess Andrew’s feeling pretty lazy about cleanup today.”

Parker says nothing, but turns with a glass jar half-full of melted wax. He tips it unceremoniously over Nyx’s sternum and lets a little wax hit his skin, splash over his chest. The reaction from Nyx is immediate—his back arches and he hisses, his wrists pull at the cuffs. Parker waits until Nyx has settled back against the table, chest heaving, before letting more wax dribble onto his stomach. He works methodically, letting a thin film of white build up on Nyx’s skin.

“This is soy wax,” Parker explains. “It has a low melting point, so it’s cooler when it hits the skin. But it’s runny and it doesn’t set completely. I like to use it as a barrier for the hotter wax, especially–” Parker pauses as he carefully drips the wax directly onto Nyx’s nipple, causing a sharp whine. “–over the nipples.”

Nyx gives a soft moan when Parker coats the other nipple. Morse finds himself drifting closer to the table, letting his eyes sweep over Nyx’s torso.

“You’re so pretty like this, Nicky,” Parker says as he runs wax down the front of Nyx’s thigh. “You’re being so good for me.”

There’s a soft whimper from the prone man and Morse feels an instinctive desire to comfort him, to soothe him.

Parker runs wax up the other thigh as he continues his explanation for Morse, “Some subs like to be humiliated. Nicky likes to be praised. Which is easy because he’s always such a good boy.”

Leaning forward, Parker presses his lips against the soft skin of Nyx’s shoulder. Then he turns away and puts the jar down. Morse does not miss the switch in address—from Nyx to Nicky. Both ’Nicky’ and ‘Nix’ are common short forms for Nicholas, and going from ‘Nix’ to the name of the goddess of night is a short jump. Morse feels like he’s solved a little puzzle, figuring out what Nyx’s real name might be. Nicholas. Morse looks at the prone man’s face, the way his full lips glisten as he pants quietly. Nicholas. His eyes are hidden, but Morse imagines how his face looks—like it had earlier, when he was tied up: blissful, serene.

“Do you feel good?” Morse asks quietly.

Nyx gives a nod, licks his lips.

 _I want to make you feel good_ , Morse thinks.

Parker turns back to the table with another candle—this one is pink, and Parker explains how wax colour can affect the temperature as well as wax substance. This candle is different from the first, Morse learns—paraffin. It cools almost instantly, but it’s hotter. Parker lets a drop fall onto Nyx, who moans. Morse watches as Parker dribbles wax slowly onto Nyx’s torso, drawing a large flower that spans most of his width. The noises Nyx makes are those of pleasure, little mewls and whines, and Morse notices that his prick has stiffened a little.

“Do you want to try?”

Morse looks up at Parker, who is holding the pink candle out, offering it to Morse.

Morse very much wants to try. “Is it alright?”

“Nicky, is it alright?” Parker asks. Nyx is silent, breath ragged, but he nods.

Morse takes the candle, careful not to spill any on Nyx. He looks at where Parker has been dribbling wax, uncertain about where to start. Parker points at Nyx’s nipple.

“Really?” Morse exhales heavily.

“Sure,” Parker replies as he turns away to get another candle.

Moving his hand slowly, Morse readies himself to tip the candle. Nyx’s breath is possibly the only thing in the room louder than the pounding of Morse’s pulse in his ears. His hand is shaking and he feels a sudden flush of adrenaline—when he tips the candle, the wax misses its mark. The effect is no less exhilarating—Nyx’s hips buck up off the table and he hisses through his teeth, the hiss becoming a sharp gasp as he sucks air back into his lungs in a gulp.

“Sorry,” Morse says quietly.

“Mmm,” Nyx moans in response, and smiles.

Morse takes this as encouragement. His next attempt dribbles pink wax over the thin layer of white already glazing Nyx’s chest and Morse guides the line of droplets until one falls on the edge of Nyx’s areola. Nyx twitches again, humming happily. Parker dribbles a line of green wax down the middle of Nyx’s chest—he’s explained that darker coloured wax feels hotter when it hits skin, and Nyx’s reactions are certainly more pronounced. Morse watches as Parker draws leaves, drips the green over Nyx’s belly, lets it collect on the soft skin where thigh and hip meet. Nyx whines and strains at the cuffs again. Morse uses his free hand to pet Nyx’s hair, a soothing touch that draws forth a grateful whimper.

“This is called co-topping, where we’re doing it together,” Parker says as he lets a droplet land precisely over the nub of Nyx’s nipple. “What do you think? How do you feel?”

Morse’s thumb strokes across Nyx’s forehead again as he groans. “I feel fine.”

It’s a minor revelation. He’s had so many months of feeling _wrong_ , out of place, and here he is feeling like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be, doing something he never imagined he’d want to do. Let alone _enjoy_. Because Morse _is_ enjoying this—he’s enjoying the way Nyx responds to the wax, enjoying the way he sighs when Morse touches his head. Giving pleasure to someone else, seeing them accept it and enjoy it—maybe Morse doesn’t fully understand the appeal of hot wax dripping onto one’s skin, but it doesn’t matter.

This is good and he wants this.

“Blow out the candle and pour the liquid wax on Nyx,” Parker instructs. “Then comes the fun part.”

Morse does as he’s told, letting the pink wax drip along the edge of the white, creep up towards Nyx’s collarbone. He relishes the smile and the moans he provokes as he remarks, “I thought this was the fun part.”

Parker takes the candle. “The fun part is picking the wax off. Some people use a knife or a letter opener. I prefer to use my fingernails, but it can take longer.”

It does take a while. Parker tells Morse to start at the top and work his way down, picking at the little dots and lines. The white wax is still soft, harder to neatly scrape up. Parker keeps up a running commentary about wax play, topping and bottoming, kink in general—to which Morse half listens. He’s more interested in the soft resistance of Nyx’s skin, the warmth of it. The way he laughs and squirms when Morse scrapes a nail across a ticklish spot. The way he gasps when Morse gently rubs the wax from his nipples. The slow cleanup also seems to have some benefit for Nyx—by the time they’re done, he’s chatting with Parker, laughing, picking at bits of wax they missed.

“What does it feel like?” Morse asks when Nyx is sitting cross legged on the table. They’re very close, Nyx’s shoulder leaning slightly against Morse’s, and Morse is worrying some waxy bits between his thumb and forefinger.

“Do you want to try?” Parker asks.

Nyx’s smile is encouraging and so Morse nods. Parker has him roll up his shirt sleeve and lay his forearm on the table. After letting a little of the white wax melt in the jar, Parker dribbles it onto Morse’s arm. It’s hot—but not burning. The sensation isn’t unpleasant, but it doesn’t really _do_ anything for Morse. Parker lets him feel the pink and green—they’re less pleasant. He pulls at the cooling wax thoughtfully. It tugs at his arm hair.

“Not for you?” Nyx asks kindly.

Morse shakes his head. “I liked… I liked doing it to you, however.”

“Do you want to give me my aftercare? I’m sure Andrew won’t mind.”

“What is that?”

“Aftercare is what it sounds like—after a scene, making sure everyone’s okay and not getting dropped out of a headspace too quickly,” Nyx explains. “For me, it’s mostly cuddling and snacking.”

This sounds like heaven to Morse, so he agrees. Nyx says goodbye to Parker and gathers up his things—but does not get dressed until he’s found his own duffel, from which he pulls a pair of soft shorts and a too-big hoodie. He looks even more fragile in the oversized clothing, skinny legs and slender frame only highlighted by the folds of fabric. With his hair mussed, Nyx looks like a sleepy college student wandering around a shared house after a night out. Morse wonders how old Nyx really is.

After he’s clothed, Nyx guides Morse into a dimly lit room. There are dark curtains sectioning the room into quarters, more curtains lining the walls. There are lots of pillows and blankets scattered amongst the couches and chairs. They find a place to sit and Nyx climbs into Morse’s lap, curls against his torso. They fit together easily, Nyx’s toes burrowing under Morse’s thigh, his forehead against Morse’s neck. It feels right to put his arms around Nyx, and so Morse does.

“This is the aftercare room. It’s quiet and dark so people can nap, if they need it,” Nyx says very quietly. He twines his arms around Morse, gives him a tight squeeze. “How do you feel? It’s a lot to jump into playing at your first party. Are you okay?”

Morse’s breath catches. He gets asked that so much these days— _are you okay, are you okay_ , the words a mocking refrain that makes him feel slightly sick, anxious, when most people speak them. Thursday says them with this searching look that implies he thinks Morse is lying when he says he’s fine—although Morse usually is. Strange says them with this new big brother-y way that Morse finds patronising—and then Strange follows up by asking about Morse’s time in prison like he’s looking for some vicarious thrill. But with Nyx it’s different. Nyx’s soft voice, the weight of his body, make Morse feel… It’s difficult to put into words. He tries to think of what his therapist tells him, tries to focus on the feelings at the root of his spine—he feels cared for, he feels grateful. He feels–

“Good. I feel good,” Morse whispers. “I feel… like I belong. Which doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t have to make sense,” Nyx whispers back. “There’s no reason I should feel good about the things I do, but I do. It isn’t because it makes sense, in a rational way. It’s because it fills a hole in me. It rights me in a storm.”

Morse gasps and tightens his grip on Nyx’s body. That image—of being a ship listing in heavy weather, being righted by something and sailing on—resonates powerfully for Morse. He feels a lump in his throat, swallows hard and waits for the sudden emotion to pass. Nyx seems fine without a response. For a while his fingers play with the fabric of Morse’s shirt, but gradually he goes still and heavy in Morse’s arms. They sit in silence, faint noises of the party continuing around them. There’s a pervading feeling of contentment in Morse, who closes his eyes and lets his mind wander to images of Nyx’s body, memories of the sounds he made.

“Half hour warning, everyone,” a woman’s voice says from the doorway.

Nyx stirs and stretches. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“It’s alright,” Morse responds. He trails his fingers up and down Nyx’s arm. It really is alright—Morse feels more settled than he has in months, like his bones have stopped vibrating under his muscles—but he feels uncertain. “Is there something I should be doing? Should I get you something to eat?”

“No, thank you,” Nyx replies. He shifts in Morse’s lap, moves away so he can face Morse. The loss of his warmth leaves a void. “Where’s your mobile? You should add me as a friend on FetLife.”

“What’s FetLife?”

Nyx blinks in confusion. It’s very cute, like a cartoon. “You aren’t on Fet? How’d you find out about the party?”

Morse feels a brief flash of panic, like a chill down his spine. “Andrew. Andrew invited me. What is FetLife?”

“I guess you’d call it Facebook for kinky people,” Nyx says, mercifully accepting Morse’s explanation. “Can I see your phone? We can make your profile. I’ll be your first friend.”

Morse fishes his phone out of his pocket. He’s not very savvy with it—there’s nothing embarrassing on it, but the lack of… anything personal makes Morse self-conscious. If Nyx notices, he says nothing, just pulls up the browser and navigates to the website. They select a username and fill in the profile—gender: male; sexual orientation: bisexual; role: exploring. _How active are you? Just curious right now_. Nyx pulls up his own profile and sends himself a friend request.

“This way we can message,” Nyx says brightly. “If you have questions or things.”

Morse takes his phone back like he’s receiving a gift. “Thank you.”

“There’s another party here next weekend. It’s a different group, though, so you’ll have to get vetted by them. They have a munch on Wednesday night—munches are socials, usually at pubs. I’ll send you the details!”

“Thank you,” Morse says again, because he isn’t sure what else to say. “I’d like to see you again.”

“Me too.”

Morse can’t help but sigh as he looks at Nyx’s soft face. He wants to kiss Nyx. He wants to push him down onto the couch and kiss him breathless and invite him home to Morse’s flat and learn the taste and smell and feel of him. He _wants_ , and this is something novel in itself—Morse’s last relationship was good, but it ended badly when he self-destructed over the corruption case and if Morse is honest, it would have ended even if he hadn’t. It’s been a long five months since Morse felt like he wanted to touch someone, to be touched.

Maybe Nyx is thinking something similar because his eyes pass over Morse’s face and he reaches up to tuck a curl of hair behind Morse’s ear. “You’re really handsome, you know. Your eyes are incredible.”

Morse parts his lips but before he gets the chance to say anything, Nyx leans in and drops a peck on Morse’s mouth.

“Sorry, I just– Sorry,” Nyx says, and even in the dim light of the aftercare room Morse can see his ears go pink.

“It’s okay.”

“I should go help clean up. Take out the trash and stuff,” Nyx says, climbing out of Morse’s lap.

They go together and Morse lends a hand. People are leaving the party, the house gradually growing quiet and empty until only Nyx, Parker, and a woman Morse assumes is Jinx are left wiping down the kitchen. It’s after two in the morning when Morse finally steps outside. Much later than he thought he’d stay and now he’s debating walking home or getting a taxi.

“Do you want a lift?” Nyx asks. He’s standing in the house’s driveway, putting his duffel into the boot of a Mini.

“Yes,” Morse says, eager for any chance to spend more time with Nyx. “I thought I’d be able to take the bus home…”

Nyx gives a soft laugh. “Our parties run a little late for that. Hop in.”

By the time Nyx has dropped Morse off at home, Morse has learned that he and Nyx are close in age but that Nyx doesn’t talk about his work with people he knows from the scene. He worries about what would happen if his coworkers knew about his hobby. Morse says he feels the same. He learns that Nyx has been involved in kink since university, nearly a decade. Morse says he can’t imagine being involved in something so long—he’s moved so much in his life, everything feels transitory. Nyx says he’s taken time off, that kink hasn’t always been such a big part of his life as it is now.

When Morse goes to bed that night it isn’t after his usual quarter bottle of scotch. It’s after going through every picture Nyx has on his FetLife profile.

He sleeps better than he has in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nyx's outfit in this chapter is the [Dionysia bodycage by Lovechild Boudoir](https://lovechildboudoir.com/collections/body-cages/products/dionysia-embroidered-flower-bodycage).
> 
> The title comes from Pamphilus, De Amore ll. 1-22: "I am wounded, and bear the arrow deep in my breast"


	2. Chapter 2

“How have you been feeling?”

For the first time since he started seeing Dr. Seton—for five mandatory sessions required for Morse to return to work that, ten sessions later, haven’t stopped yet—Morse doesn’t roll his eyes and huff out a wry laugh. He doesn’t say ‘the same,’ the way he always does even when it’s a lie. Instead Morse says, “Alright.”

Dr. Seton looks up in surprise. “Great. I’m pleased to hear that. Any particular reason or…?”

Morse considers what to say as Dr. Seton shuffles through his notes. Long periods of silence are not unheard of between them—it’s difficult for Morse to get his thoughts together, sometimes, and over the course of the two months they’ve met Dr. Seton has gotten used to pretending not to notice, giving Morse space and time to string words together. Today feels different, however—Morse feels lighter, somehow, in his body, as if the tingling feeling in his stomach that Morse thinks of as _hope_ is buoying him up.

“I took your advice,” Morse begins. Dr. Seton looks up at him expectantly, straightens his papers and holds his pen at the ready. “I’ve been going out to some social events. Meeting new people.”

This is has been the most prominent of Dr. Seton’s recurrent advice: that perhaps Morse’s anxiety about returning to work, his coworker’s perceptions of him, stems from the fact that Morse has no friends, no social structure outside of his workplace. That perhaps having something—a hobby, a sport—that had nothing to do with policing would help Morse feel less like he was failing if he couldn’t live up to his own expectations, his reputation among his colleagues.

“That’s great. Would you like to talk about it?”

Morse winces. He does not really want to talk about it, not in specifics. But he feels almost desperate for any excuse to talk about one part of it, in particular, the one part he’s been hiding all week, holding close to his heart.

“I went to a party last weekend. And out to the pub with some of the same people last night,” Morse starts hesitantly.

“How did it feel to go out with a group? You’ve said that you don’t feel comfortable in crowds, that you feel anxious that people think you’re awkward.”

“Yes. I felt that a little. But everyone was very nice and… encouraging. People made sure to include me. In things,” Morse replies slowly. He’s trying to be deliberate with his word choices. He pauses, tries to pull together his thoughts—but he gets caught on the memory of Nyx’s hand on his, the way he looked at Morse with understanding—and his words run away from him. “I spent most of my time talking to one person. He was– He’s very warm, as a person. He speaks with such… tenderness. I don’t know why, but I told him some about what happened last year and he– He didn’t make a big deal out of it, or ask questions. He was kind. He told me he’s had or has PTSD, depression. That he’s been in therapy half his life. He said that he was proud of me, for this.”

Dr. Seton smiles at Morse, a smile like he understands as well. “And how did that make you feel?”

A tear wells up out of Morse’s eye. He’s not sad, he’s just… “Relieved. Grateful.”

“I’m proud of you, too,” Dr. Seton says as he leans over and pats Morse’s knee. “You took a risk—you did something you were afraid of—and it seems like it went okay. Maybe you made a friend…?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you going to see the same group again? This new friend?”

“Yes. This weekend. Saturday.”

“And how do you feel about that?” Dr. Seton asks.

Morse looks out the window. The sky is low and grey, dark clouds heavy with rain. It can be so tedious sometimes, the way Dr. Seton keeps asking how he _feels_ about things, the way he pushes back every time Morse says ‘I don’t know’ or pushes Morse to identify a more basic emotion, to stop saying he _should_ feel certain ways or _can’t_ come up with an accurate enough word.

But today it’s easy. Today the right word is there on the tip of Morse’s tongue, and he says, “Hopeful.”

❦

“Hello, matey. Didn’t know you were back.”

Morse nods at Strange as the other man drops into his chair, without taking his eyes off his monitor. He’s been reviewing photographs of the evidence collected at the murder scenes since he got back from his therapy session—he’d read on the bus ride back about the kind of suspension Claudine had practiced on Nyx the previous weekend and wondered if there was a match with the ropes used to bind the four victims of what Ms. Frazil and the Mail call the ‘Oxford Ripper.’ It doesn’t seem likely. The murderer uses the kind of cheap nylon rope commonly available everywhere, and the knots used are unremarkable. There’s no artistry to it, not the way Morse had seen in his research. Just brutality.

“Governor says you’re going to another one of those, ah… _parties_ this weekend.”

Strange’s tone is suggestive in a way Morse dislikes. On Monday, Thursday had asked for a rundown of what Morse had learned over the weekend and Strange had supplied running commentary of jokey observations that got under Morse’s skin. Even so, he’d managed to sum up his impressions without giving away his fascination with what had gone on—or his participation.

“Yes,” Morse replies indifferently.

“You think there’s something in it?”

Morse considers, runs his eyes over the board on which they’ve taped up the information on their victims, their speculations about the killer. He forces himself to compartmentalise his experience the weekend before, to set aside Nyx as something separate, something only for himself.

“I don’t know. I didn’t learn much that was relevant to the case last time,” Morse says, and it isn’t a lie. It’s just judicious. “I don’t have much hope of learning anything relevant this weekend. But I don’t think it’s worth giving up yet.”

Strange considers him thoughtfully, then scoots his chair closer to Morse. They’re alone in CID and Morse can practically read what’s coming on Strange’s forehead. He preemptively rolls his eyes.

“Was it… you know,” Strange asks, eyebrows jumping suggestively. “Like that book.”

“Strange, the most disturbing thing I saw all night was a naked man scratch himself and then touch a plate of food,” Morse replies, turning back to his computer screen.

Strange makes a face. “So you didn’t see any, uh…”

“Sex? Whipping? No, I did not. I went to talk to people, so I talked to people.”

“Ah.” Strange sits back in his chair. He seems disappointed.

Morse takes pity on him. “I did see two women wearing strap-on dildos.”

“What were they going to do with those?” Strange asks, sounding more confused than shocked or intrigued.

Morse just looks at him. He’s saved from having to explain lesbian sex acts or any of the other things he’s sure two women with fake cocks can imagine by the phone on Strange’s desk ringing. He goes back to his computer and frowns at it as Strange listens to whoever is on the other end. It doesn’t sound like good news.

When Morse turns looks at him again, Strange’s expression is grim.

❦

It’s just after nine on Saturday night when Morse arrives back at the house in Headington. Light seeps between the heavy curtains, providing hints of the activity inside. Morse learned the hard way the weekend before that when arriving for the sort of events hosted here, you don’t need to knock. This time he lets himself in to the sitting room and is immediately greeted by a handful of people, none of whom know his name but all of whom are friendly to him. It’s still disorientating to be welcomed not for who he is, or because he’s known, but simply because he is there. Their acceptance is given so freely, without needing to be earned—it’s a novel feeling not to need to _prove_ his worth, to simply _have_ worth.

After paying the door fee, Morse heads through the kitchen and into the garden. Nyx had told him in one of their many conversations on the FetLife website that he’d wait by the firepit for Morse, but as soon as Morse steps outside he’s intercepted by Andrew Parker.

“Look, look here,” Parker says, face grave, as he pulls Morse to the side. Over his shoulder, Morse can see Nyx chatting with Claudine on the swinging bench. “I saw in the paper this morning another body was found. Do you have any leads? Is there anything I can do?”

Morse pushes Parker farther from the door and shushes him. “I can’t discuss the investigation with you, Parker.”

“But this new body– It’s the same, isn’t it? When was he killed? Did you get Nicky to tell you who his friend Adam is?”

A sound of aggravation escapes Morse’s lips and he rolls his eyes. “Parker, I can’t discuss any of this with you. And I’m not convinced Nyx’s friend is anything other than what Nyx says he is. You should give your friend more credit for his judgment of people.”

“Does that include his judgment of you?” Parker asks pointedly as Morse turns to walk away.

“I’m sorry?”

“Nyx seems to be getting close to you awfully fast,” Parker replies. It isn’t necessarily an accusation, but Parker says it like he’s questioning his own judgment in bringing Morse into this world.

Morse doesn’t know how to respond at first, so he just gapes incredulously for a moment. “What exactly are you implying, Parker?”

This seems to make Parker back down and turn contrite. “Nothing, really. Just… Nicky really seems to like you. I’m sure you can’t talk to him about the investigation either since you’re undercover and what not. But please don’t mess him about.”

“I don’t intend to,” Morse replies quietly. He looks over at the firepit and this time he catches Nyx’s eyes, who smiles and waves enthusiastically. Morse waves back with mixed feelings. He knows far better than Parker how difficult a line Morse is going to have to walk to avoid hurting Nyx or landing in front of another disciplinary board. But at the same time, with their eyes locked across the vast and minuscule space, it’s impossible not to think of that moment, that soft brush of lips in that dark room and Nyx’s eyes—warm amber, like a welcome scotch after a hard day, that make Morse want to sink into them the way he sinks into his cups. Morse _wants_ , and maybe he feels a little rebellious, feels a thought snaking up his spine asking ‘why not?’

Parker lets out a loud sigh. “Yeah, I’m sure you know what you’re doing. It’s just getting to me. I’m worried.”

“And you should be,” Morse says, forcing the tension out of his shoulders and, finally, looking away from Nyx. He lowers his voice, “But I haven’t heard or seen anything that suggests the killer is into… all this. And like I said, you should have more faith in Nyx’s judgment.”

With this, Morse steps away from Parker and goes to join Nyx, who makes space for Morse to squeeze onto the swinging bench and then leans against him. Nyx is wearing another strappy bodysuit over tights. This one is darker than the first one, with yellow-brown and red-purple pansies instead of roses and asters. Like the other one, this one leaves much of his skin exposed and Morse wonders again how Nyx can be warm in the chill air. He fights the urge to put his arm around Nyx, or drape the cardigan he’s wearing around Nyx’s shoulders.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Nyx says as he turns towards Morse. He’s wearing his hair down, pushed back behind his ears, and some falls loose.

Morse allows himself to reach up and tuck it back. Nyx’s eyes sparkle and Morse smiles as he says, “Any particular reason?”

“No,” Nyx replies. His grin spreads wider, full lips thinning out as they curl upwards at the corners and reveal the white of his teeth. “Listen, Claudine wants to do some suspension with me again—do you want to watch? I’ll be free afterwards—I haven’t heard from Adam and Andrew’s booked tonight.”

“Yes,” Morse says. His eyes catch Claudine’s over the top of Nyx’s head. She has the same look Parker gave him earlier—thoughtful, suspicious. He leans forward to include her in the conversation. “I thought it was really beautiful, what you did last week. I’d never seen anything like it.”

“Thank you,” Claudine says, mouth catching around the words, her accent more noticeable. “Would you like to try? Nyx says you’re new to kink.”

“Oh,” Morse says. “Maybe. What kind of rope do you use?”

“I use jute rope for suspension,” Claudine replies. Nyx shifts next to Morse, turning so that his body is angled towards Claudine and he’s laying back slightly against Morse’s arm. Slowly, Morse mimics the movement, turning his torso and raising his arm so that Nyx can more fully rest against his chest—it feels so automatic, so natural. Morse tries to keep from smiling, keeps his full attention on Claudine as she continues, “Sometimes I use hemp. It is better for some things.”

“Bedroom things,” Nyx says quietly with a little giggle. Morse tries to ignore the sudden twist of heat in his belly as he wonders about Nyx’s experience with those bedroom things.

“Is that common? Jute? I don’t know what that is,” Morse says after clearing his throat. He’s learned a lot about rope over the past few days—different types of synthetic ropes, cotton, hemp, the things used for climbing and hiking and sailing and bondage.

“Ah, it’s the same plant used for making burlap,” Claudine explains. “But many people use synthetic rope. It is cheaper, but it lacks… _esthétique_.”

Something in the way she says this makes it clear that Claudine does not settle for cheap materials, and it makes Morse feel pleased that she doesn’t use cheap stuff with Nyx, that she values quality over price.

“And the knots you use are just… knots? They’re not special?”

“When I use knots, yes, they are just knots.”

“Ah, I see,” Morse says, mouth twitching in barely-concealed disappointment. If there’s similarity between the knots or rope used by the Ripper and those used in the kink community, it’s just as probable to be coincidence than not. He wishes he could write this down, but he’s left his warrant card and notebook at home.

Claudine gives him the same thoughtful, slightly suspicious look. Their eyes meet, hold for several long heartbeats, before Claudine smiles and says, “But probably it would be better to show you.”

She stands abruptly and puts out a hand towards Nyx, who takes it and lets her pull him up. Morse follows, past where Parker is chatting in the kitchen—and ignoring his questioning look—and up the stairs. Claudine drops Nyx’s hand and begins looking through the pile of similar duffels for her own, so Nyx takes Morse’s hand and draws him into the room they’ll be using. The closet holds several padded mats and Morse helps Nyx pull some out and arrange them under the eyelet in the ceiling from which Claudine will suspend him.

“What should I do?” Morse asks as Nyx kneels on the floor and Claudine begins setting up.

“Sit here,” Nyx says and directs Morse to a place on the mat in the corner. He’s being a little coquettish, flirtatious. “So you can see.”

Morse does as he’s told and immediately Nyx pushes himself forward onto his hands and knees so that he can plant a suggestive kiss on Morse’s cheek, near his ear.

“I want you to see,” Nyx whispers, and Morse feels heat bloom in his belly.

“I want to see,” he says as Nyx pulls back enough for their eyes to meet.

“Good.”

When Nyx settles back onto his knees, he closes his eyes and takes a long breath. Morse tries to find a comfortable position against the wall and watches as Claudine uses a stepladder to hook her ring from the eyelet and begin laying out lengths of rope. As she works, Nyx keeps his eyes closed and breathes slowly. It’s almost as if he’s meditating, and Morse wants to ask what he’s thinking about, to ask Nyx to narrate this process in his soft voice, to keep asking questions—but to speak feels wrong, and his voice catches in his throat like a pill trying to come back up. For someone who spends his life asking questions, the silence is uncomfortable.

Without speaking, Claudine gently tugs at Nyx’s arm until he stands.She turns him to face the wall—and the corner Morse is sitting in—and begins binding Nyx’s arms behind his back. Nyx’s head has fallen forward, hair falling in loose waves around his face. To Morse’s eyes he looks far too fragile for the way Claudine wraps the rope around his torso, jerking him this way and that as she makes sure the ties are tight. With his arms bound to the small of his back, Nyx’s collarbones are especially prominent—twin flourishes adorning the cornice of his shoulders.

Claudine works methodically, turning and twisting Nyx and creating a strong harness around his torso. Several other people have taken up positions against the far wall, but there’s complete silence in the room aside from the whispers Claudine leans in to murmur into Nyx’s ears, the soft sounds he makes when she touches him, kisses him. She’s saying something to him as he relaxes against her—Nyx is turned once more so that Morse can see his face and it looks like he’s gone somewhere else in his mind. Nyx’s words come back to Morse—that it’s about feeling safe enough to let go, to let someone else take control, to find comfort in that.

Once the harness is completed to Claudine’s satisfaction, she takes a moment to put her arms around Nyx, run her hands down his back. There’s an immediacy to their intimacy, something teasing and slow that makes Morse feel jealous and impatient. He’s a spectator, separate from the tenderness of Claudine’s caresses and unable to see Nyx’s face, his responses, and it makes Morse feel unconnected, unsatisfied. He wonders if he’ll ever get used to this feeling of being apart, alone, isolated—it’s certainly been the dominating emotion in his life these last few months, but if Morse is honest it’s always been there, to some extent. Would he feel differently if he was the one stroking Nyx’s hair, his back? If he was the one Nyx was relaxing against, trusting, finding comfort in?

Morse knows from having Nyx on his lap the week before that Nyx is very light, but it’s still a surprise when Claudine threads a rope through the ring and hoists Nyx up until his toes barely touch the ground. He hangs, hair falling around his face and obscuring it, like a marionette waiting for its puppeteer as Claudine picks up another length of rope. She uses this one to bind Nyx’s left ankle and calf to his thigh and then suspends the leg from the ring. Working quickly, Claudine winds another length of rope around Nyx’s other thigh to create a harness and then lifts it, suspending his whole body as if he was sitting in a swing. There’s a soft whimper from Nyx as Claudine gathers up his hair as if she’s going to put it in a ponytail and instead uses the dangling end of a rope to tie his hair to the ring.

There’s still an element of performance art in the shapes Nyx’s body makes, in the way Claudine stands to the side so that she doesn’t obscure his face when she leans in to stroke a cheek, run her hands across his chest—but this position, more than any of last week’s, makes waves of helplessness and vulnerability roll off Nyx and Morse’s hand twitches, desperate to do more than tease comfort. But this is one of the rules Parker had carefully gone over with Morse—do not interrupt a scene, do not touch another person’s submissive without permission. So all Morse can do is sit and watch and want as time stretches on, as Nyx’s face contorts, pleasure and pain mixing in his expression.

After untying one leg and letting it dangle, Claudine flips Nyx so that he’s facing the floor. Lifting the same leg up, she crosses the thigh under the other and reties it by the ankle to the ring. Nyx makes a soft sound of protest and Morse watches as Claudine goes and kneels beneath him, reaching up to cup both his cheeks in her hands. They whisper to each other, soft sounds too faint for Morse to understand, and then Claudine adjusts his position, runs her hand over the curves of his buttocks and back to card fingers through his pulled-taut hair. Nyx sighs, gives in to gravity and lets his head fall as far forward as he can. Morse is amazed that he can seem so relaxed—surely the bite of the ropes into his flesh is painful, surely he still feels _some_ anxiety about falling?

Claudine snaps a few photos of Nyx with her phone, kneeling and laying and bending and crouching to get different angles, different elements of her ropework, the flushed and open features of Nyx’s face. And then she begins unceremoniously letting him down, untying knots and working quickly until Nyx is once again dangling by the harness around his torso—here Claudine pauses and puts her hands around Nyx’s face once more, presses soft kisses to his cheeks before she reaches up to untie his hair. Claudine lets him sink gently to the floor before laying him on his side and undoing the rest of the ropes. He still has the gone-away blissful expression on his face, eyes closed, lips parted, and Morse aches to know what he’s feeling, to be the one to give him that pleasure, to be _trusted_ , _needed_.

Once again Claudine pulls a blanket from her duffel and wraps Nyx in it before laying on the mat next to him and pulling him close. Her eyes meet Morse’s over Nyx’s head and she watches him as she whispers to Nyx—no doubt telling him how good and beautiful he was, the same sort of things Parker had said Nyx likes. Morse feels the heavy _want_ , the desire to take Claudine’s place, settle between the arches of his pelvis, dense heat weighing down on his pelvic floor. Maybe Claudine can sense this because she smiles and says something to Nyx, who makes a soft sound, like a laugh or a sigh. He pulls his head up and says something back, is rewarded with a kiss.

And then Claudine pushes herself up and pulls a hairbrush from her bag. She chucks it gently at Morse. “Can you brush Nyx’s hair out while I wind my ropes?”

“Is that alright?” Morse asks as he picks up the brush.

“He wants it,” she replies simply before turning away.

Morse’s eyes slide over to find Nyx watching him. Sitting up with the blanket pulled around his gently sloping shoulders, Nyx looks achingly young and delicate and he watches Morse with an expression of uncertainty, hopefulness that disarms Morse entirely. When Morse adjust his position, opens his arms with the brush held ready, Nyx scoots himself over and settles in front of Morse’s crossed legs.

Nyx’s hair falls past his shoulders, nearly to the middle of his back—save for the feathery cheek-length fringe that frames his face. It’s a rich golden brown—not quite as light as his eyes—and falls in gentle waves that curl at the ends. Morse runs the brush through it slowly, careful not to pull at any knots he encounters. The motion itself is soothing, to Morse and, hopefully, to Nyx. It’s been years since Morse has done this—not since his sister was little and wore her hair as long as her spine. It’s odd to think of his sister in a situation like this, but the feeling of caring for someone is too familiar, too similar, to ignore.

Running his fingers through Nyx’s silky locks, Morse smiles as he asks, “Can I braid your hair?”

“Braid?” Nyx asks in surprise.

“Yes,” Morse answers as he carefully parts Nyx’s hair down the middle.

“Sure,” is the reply, although Nyx sounds somewhat uncertain.

“Has anyone ever braided your hair?” Morse asks as he separates Nyx’s hair into two big sections, leaving his fringe to continue framing his face.

“No,” Nyx says as he pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

Morse’s fingers work quickly, segmenting the left section and gently folding the pieces expertly over and through, gathering more and folding them in. He’s relieved the muscle memory is still there, letting him work automatically, without needing to think.

“I used to do this for my sister when she was young,” Morse says quietly. He thinks he hears a soft sound from Nyx over the noise of the party. “Our father was too rough when he brushed her hair and made her cry, and her mother always said she was too busy. So Joyce would come find me and let me brush her hair and braid it.”

“Are you two close?”

“We try to be. It’s… complicated.”

“You said… ‘Our’ father but ‘her’ mother,” Nyx points out quietly.

“He left my mother for Joyce’s. Then my mother died…”

“I’m sorry,” Nyx whispers as Morse ties off one French braid. Not his best work, but messiness looks good on Nyx, balances out the symmetrical beauty of his face. “I’m an only child, so far as I know. But I’ve never met my father, so I’m not sure. Maybe he doesn’t know about me, he didn’t come for me when my mother died.”

Morse hums in reply and starts working on the other side. They sit in silence for a while as Claudine winds up her ropes into neat bundles. People wander in and out and around, but there’s a little oasis of stillness here in this corner, Morse and Nyx and the sudden deep well of griefs they have shared. The lack of words between them stretches on the rhythm of Morse’s hands. There’s so much _relief_ to telling Nyx things and seeing them accepted, acknowledged, without being either brushed aside or questioned invasively. It’s as intoxicating as the feel of brushing his fingers against Nyx’s skin as he works, as comforting as the heat of Nyx’s body pressing against his legs.

“There,” Morse says as he ties off the second braid. He’d tried to match it to the first, leave it loose and soft, even though his fingers had worked more confidently after a little practice.

“Thank you,” Nyx says as he turns to face Morse. His smile looks like sunlight feels on a perfect spring day. “How do I look?”

“Beautiful.”

Nyx’s smile widens, his eyes shine. “I want to see. Will you take a picture of me? My phone’s downstairs.”

Morse obliges, fishing his phone out of his pocket and fumbling to open the camera app. He uses it mostly for taking pictures at crime scenes of things he wants to remember that might not end up in the official crime scene pictures. It’s a departure to use his camera for something else, something personal, and he snaps several pictures of Nyx as he smiles playfully and toys with the end of a braid. Morse thinks half the photos are blurry because of Nyx’s laughter, but when he switches to the photos app the first one he sees is perfect and clear and breathtaking and Morse loves it. Nyx moves to sit next to Morse, leaning close to look over his shoulder at the pictures.

“Aww, I love this one. Talk about hidden talents—you don’t really seem the type. Will you text some to me?” Nyx asks.

“What do you mean, I don’t seem the type?” Morse asks with a smile, cheerfully half-offended, as he opens the texting app and hands Nyx his phone.

“I just mean, you come across like the strong, silent kind. Serious man of few words, stoic and masculine. Not the sort of guy who braids hair for his little sister,” Nyx explains as he puts in his number and sends a few photos to himself. He looks up at Morse again, expression soft and open—like it had been the week before, just before he’d leaned in and brushed his lips against Morse’s. Instead of a kiss, he says, “It’s not a criticism. You’re… surprising. I like surprising.”

“Will you like me more if I tell you I was a regular at her tea parties?” Morse teases.

Before Nyx has a chance to reply, Claudine drops a hank of rope in Morse’s lap. “ _C’est bon, là._ Do you want to try something?”

“There’s no pressure,” Nyx says earnestly. But his eyes glitter with excitement, the same gentle encouragement he’d offered about the wax.

Morse has been feeling the hank of rope, fingers examining the texture and weight of it. His brain automatically compares it to the different lengths of rope recovered from the Ripper’s victims and notes the differences. When Nyx speaks, it brings Morse’s attention back to the present.

“No, I’ll– I want to try. But,” Morse asks, turning to Claudine, “can you explain what you do? I think I’d like to learn.”

“Sure,” Claudine says as she sits in front of Morse. “Give me your arm. This,” Claudine continues when Morse has complied, “is a single column tie. It’s the most fundamental bondage tie. It allows you to safely bind wrists or ankles.”

She demonstrates by winding the rope around Morse’s wrist and looping it under and through itself. Morse watches curiously as she explains both how to do the tie and how it works. The result is a tight but not uncomfortable cuff and when she explains how the long tail can be used to tie someone to a bed frame, Morse feels the need to turn his head away, to try and hide the flush that makes his ears burn. When Claudine undoes the tie and demonstrates how to bind both wrists together, Morse experiences a surge of anxiety. The way the rope feels is so different from the cold metal of handcuffs, but it makes something pinch in Morse’s chest anyway to have his hands bound. He tests the tightness of the cuffs and with a little work almost manages to slip his hand out.

“Do you want to try a partial suspension?” Claudine asks as she unties the rope.

“Sure,” Morse says, curious to experience of a little of what Nyx does, to try and understand it and desperate to try and alleviate the sudden rising tide of adrenaline.

Claudine begins by using the single column tie on each of his wrists, then uses the tails to begin constructing a harness around his chest with his arms crossed over. It feels a little nice, like a hug, but as soon as Claudine has tied him to the ring and begun to tip him backwards, encouraging him to let the rope take his weight, Morse panics and tries to flail. Without his arms to balance himself, he swings awkwardly and his legs go out from under him. He’s hyper-aware of Nyx’s eyes on him, the eyes of strangers in the room and passing by, and his self-consciousness surges, makes bile catch in his throat. The only bright spot for Morse in the whole embarrassing endeavour is Nyx catching hold of him and helping him to his feet, the press of Nyx’s hands on his back, his arm.

“Woah, woah,” Nyx says as he steadies Morse on his feet. “Maybe this isn’t for you, either.”

Morse shakes his head, breathless. “No, I think not.”

Claudine begins untying Morse. Nyx slips an arm around Morse’s waist, out of Claudine’s way as she works, and he leans in. “Are you okay? You’re shaking.”

He isn’t wrong. Morse is sudden cognisant of the way his hands are trembling against the constriction of the ropes, the way his knees feel like they might give way, how his breath is coming in fast, quiet gulps. _Panic attack_ , Morse thinks, but doesn’t say. He nods at Nyx as the ropes slide through themselves and loosen, but Nyx’s grip only tightens around Morse and his eyes go sharp with abrupt focus.

“It’s okay. Let’s go back outside,” Nyx says gently as Claudine undoes the cuffs around Morse’s wrists.

“Sorry,” Morse says to Claudine, and winces at how absurd he sounds.

“It’s okay,” she says, and the air of aloof boredom slips into a warmth Morse had not expected. “It’s not for everyone. And I could have managed that better. I apologise.”

When Morse is free, he lets Nyx guide him out of the room and downstairs. Nyx gathers some water and biscuits in the kitchen as they pass through it, pushes them into Morse’s hands once they’re sitting by the firepit again.

“Eat something. It might help, the sugar,” he says, voice soft and insistent. His arm is still around Morse, who worries suddenly that Nyx will feel the heat of how that touch burns into Morse. “Are you having a panic attack?”

Morse looks at him in alarm, eyes going wide as his chest tightens again. “How did you…?”

Nyx smiles. “I’m no stranger to them. Keep breathing. It’s okay. You’re safe here.”

Morse does his best to breathe, to remember everything Dr. Seton has taught him about managing. It helps that he does feel safe with Nyx—perhaps not physically safe, but emotionally safe. Nyx understands. Nyx isn’t judging, isn’t burdening Morse with questions. Nyx is helping.

“Do you want me to drive you home?” Nyx asks quietly as he covers Morse’s clenched fist with his hand.

“No,” Morse says automatically, shakily. He takes a deep breath, counts as he lets it out. “No. I’ll be alright. I just need a moment.”

“Okay.”

They sit in silence. Morse allows himself to lean against to Nyx a little, to accept the comfort offered. The fire dances and Morse loses himself in it, in analysing what had set him off. He thinks of what Nyx had said the week before when they’d sat here, of wondering if he wanted to have control or lose it. The answer seems suddenly obvious.

Beside Morse, Nyx shifts his arm from where it’s been around Morse’s shoulders and begins to tease his fingers through the hair at the nape of Morse’s neck. It’s such an intimate thing, so tender, that Morse can’t help but let out a sigh and relax into the touch.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Morse shakes his head. No, he does not. And yet, his mouth opens of its own accord. “I was arrested last year. Framed, for a crime I didn’t commit. I suppose… Having my hands bound like that just reminded me. And it’s like you said—it’s about control.”

Nyx’s fingers rub soothingly against Morse’s scalp and Morse closes his eyes. When he speaks, Nyx’s voice is warm and strong and Morse isn’t sure what, exactly, he’s referring to but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because it’s the truth.

“It’s alright now.”

Yes, it is.

Time passes. They watch the fire burn lower until someone adds another log. People join them, then depart. Morse lets the flow of conversation swirl around him and it isn’t until Nyx shivers against him that Morse thinks about how late it must be getting. Checking his watch, he finds it’s after midnight and remembers that he’s here to do a job—not sit by the fire and have his hair stroked by someone whose kindness is probably being wasted on Morse. Nyx has taken Morse at face value, accepted everything Morse has told him, and that value is ultimately worthless.

Turning on the bench so that Nyx’s fingers fall free from his hair, Morse faces him as he smooths his errant curls back against his skin. “Why don’t we go back inside?”

Nyx nods. “Sure.”

The first thing Morse hears when they go back inside is a sharp cry of pain from the floor above them. There’s a sharp sound, a tremendous crack, and another cry. Morse wonders that they couldn’t hear anything from outside. He looks at Nyx, who seems entirely unconcerned as he picks among the food still left in the kitchen.

“What is that?” Morse asks, pointing at the ceiling when Nyx looks up at him. “It sounds painful.”

Nyx listens for a moment, to another loud slap and another cry. “Sounds like someone’s doing impact.”

“Impact? Wasn’t there an incident involving that a while ago? Someone was badly hurt?” Morse asks.

“Oh, how did you hear about that?”

“Andrew told me,” Morse explains quickly. “When he was explaining the importance of consent and stopping when told to.”

With a nod, Nyx goes back to picking at the fruit. “Yeah, it was some pick-up play at a party. Not Andrew’s and my group—I’m not sure who was hosting that night. Gosh, it’s been… several months now. Anyway, Toyboy agreed to do an impact scene with some guy—someone new to the scene, I think. Or new to Oxford. And it went really badly. I’ve hardly seen Toyboy since then. I think he got some bruising to his ribs.”

“Why wasn’t it reported to the police?”

“We generally believe that incidents like that should be handled by the community,” Nyx says quietly. “Getting police involved… There are a lot of things, some of them happening upstairs right now, that could get someone arrested even though both the parties are consenting. No one wants the scrutiny. So the offender was put on the banned list for most of the groups in the area and I don’t think anyone’s seen him since.”

Morse finds it ironic that Andrew Parker had invited police scrutiny so eagerly. Not that Morse has any interest in arresting anyone other than the Ripper.

At another shriek from upstairs, Morse comments, “It sounds very violent.”

“Sometimes people are loud even when the play is not that intense. Do you want to go watch?” Nyx asks.

“Sure.”

Upstairs, Morse is surprised to find nothing but laughter breaking above the noise of the milling crowd. They join the group at the door of a smaller bedroom and Morse can see a woman standing in front of a wooden St Andrew’s cross. Her hands and feet are secured to the cross by leather cuffs and there’s a blindfold around her head. There’s another woman in a tank top and sweat pants teasing a riding crop up the first woman’s naked thigh, causing high-pitched giggles until a shriek follows a powerful _whack_ against a buttock.

“That’s Aria on the cross. She’s very vocal. Melody is the domme,” Nyx whispers to Morse. “Come on.”

They squirm their way forward as people shift around and get a better view of what’s happening. Morse watches as Melody puts down the riding crop on a nearby chair and picks up a wooden paddle. She runs it along Aria’s arse and whispers something in her ears, to which Aria nods. Melody stands back and swings the paddle—not too hard, but enough to make a loud _smack_. Morse flinches as Aria gives a high-pitched squeal and squirms against the cuffs, in a way that seems false and performative.

Melody strikes Aria again and Morse feels a distinct lack of interest in continuing to watch. But. He probably has a duty to, for the case—there were several bruises and contusions on the Ripper’s victims, evidence of beatings. Still, he frowns in distaste as he watches the red blooming across Aria’s backside and tries to imagine the appeal of hitting someone in such a way.

“Do you do this? Let someone hit you?” he asks Nyx.

“Yes.”

“Oh,” Morse says, vaguely surprised.

There’s a moment of awkward silence before Nyx says, “What Melody is doing right now is ‘paddling’—using a paddle, a broad, flat instrument. There are two types of impact play: ‘thuddy’ and ‘stingy.’ The difference is in the sensation the instrument makes against flesh. This is ‘thuddy.’ It’s a heavier kind of impact, kind of like getting punched. It generally leaves bruises.”

Morse hums disinterestedly as he watches the scene.

“‘Stingy’ impact is a lighter, sharper sensation—I find it fades more quickly. Like a bee sting, I suppose. Generally stingy impact involves whips or thin canes and it leaves welts or shallow cuts.”

“Do you prefer one over the other?” Morse asks.

“Hmmmm,” Nyx hums in reply. Morse feels him suddenly lean in, and he’s very close to Morse’s ear when he says, “It really depends on my mood.”

Something about the way he says it, the flirtation, the _suggestion_ , makes something clench sharp and hot in Morse’s groin. He turns to look at Nyx and finds his face as open and smiling as ever, and Morse feels suddenly off-balanced. He exhales slowly as Nyx straightens himself with a soft laugh.

They continue watching the scene and gradually it begins to grow more intense. Melody’s strikes hit harder and Aria stops giggling and shrieking and starts moaning and eventually begins to go quiet except for small cries. Morse turns to look at Nyx and finds his expression has gone still and dark and… _intent_. Hungry.

“What is the appeal of this?” Morse asks Nyx quietly. “I can understand what you did earlier, but this… Is it still just about control?”

“Yes and no,” Nyx whispers back, voice low. “The threshold between pleasure and pain can be very thin for some people, and any kind of submission can result in a release of endorphins. Impact makes you so vulnerable—about as vulnerable as you can ever be, because there’s so much risk involved. It can make a bottom drop into something we call ‘subspace’—almost similar to doing drugs. For some it’s a feeling of euphoria or arousal or… It’s hard to explain, but it’s good.”

“What is it like for you?”

“It reminds me I’m alive.”

Morse makes a soft, punched-out sound. Nyx’s voice is so steady, so low—the intensity and simplicity of his response both make Morse’s blood rush hot as an image flashes in his mind, of Nyx tied up and waiting for Morse’s attention, body lithe and long and yearning to feel alive. Morse wants to give Nyx anything he wants, to bring him to an altered state and then to do this, what Melody is now doing: helping Aria down from the cross and holding her, stroking her hair and skin.

“Come on, let’s go,” Nyx says, fingers gripping Morse’s elbow lightly.

Downstairs they find a place on a couch. The crowd is thinning out in the house and Morse watches people wander around. Nyx hasn’t regained his usual vivaciousness and seems lost in his thoughts. Morse watches as he picks at the elastic bands holding his bodysuit together, lets them snap lightly against his skin, and Morse tries to piece together what he’s learned tonight and compare it to the Ripper case—but eventually the silence overwhelms him.

“Are you alright?” he asks Nyx, quietly.

Nyx looks up. “Oh, yes. Sorry. Just suddenly feeling… Um, tired. I had a long week.”

There was a catch in Nyx’s breath, a hesitation, that Morse’s detective’s instincts can’t fail to notice. A quick glance, glittering and anxious, that swept swiftly over Morse’s face before flashing away. Morse interprets this as indicating there’s something Nyx is thinking of but doesn’t want to say, no matter how much Morse wishes he would. Maybe Nyx’s thoughts are trending in the same direction as Morse’s have been in Nyx’s presence all evening. But Morse doesn’t question Nyx, doesn’t press him.

“It’s late. You should go home and rest,” Morse says instead, turning his own face to where he threads his fingers together in his lap.

“Yes. Probably,” Nyx replies. “Do you want a ride home?”

“Please. And… Would it be alright if I saved your phone number? It would be easier for us to talk that way.”

Nyx’s face brightens, smile blooming once again. “Yes. Sure. And you can call me Nicholas, if you want. Out in the vanilla world.”

 _Nicholas_. Morse can’t hide a smile. The heady rush of pleasure makes him feel a little reckless, a little impatient with rules a regulations. He’s confident, he knows what he’s doing when he says, “Maybe we can get a drink some time. Out in the vanilla world.”

“Yes,” Nyx replies. “I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Nyx is wearing the [Superstition bodycage by Lovechild Boudoir](https://lovechildboudoir.com/collections/body-cages/products/superstition-woodland-goddess-bodycage).


End file.
